“So we’ll do what he says? We’ll kill the village, all of them, without reason?”
Qurrah stopped their progress by turning and placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders. His eyes burned into Harruq’s, so strong in force that the larger brother could not look away.
“You have done much for me without question, without pause. This is different. Velixar has given us the power and privilege to do what we were always meant to do. I need you to embrace this. Velixar’s reason is the only reason we need, that we will ever need. It is in our blood, our orcish blood, and that is a weight even your muscles cannot hold back. We are killers, murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. That is our fate. That is our reason. Do you understand?”
Harruq’s fingers traced the hilts of his new swords. He knew what his brother asked. He had killed before, but this was different. This was a complete surrender to the murderer within. He thought of his vow to Velixar, and also to his brother. Obedience. Loyalty. He had sworn his entire life to them. What else did he know? What else could he be?
He thought of Aurelia only once before he spoke. Her face was a white knife in the darkness of his mind, and he buried her deep within his heart as he yielded to the wisdom of his brother.
“Yeah,” Harruq said. “I understand.”
“Good. Now come.” The two resumed traveling up the small hill. They stopped again, however, for from their vantage point they could see the village.
“See the torches?” Harruq asked, pointing. His brother nodded.
“Velixar’s nightmares have pulled them from their slumber. It would be too easy otherwise.”
“It’s going to be easy anyway,” Harruq said, drawing his blades. The soft red glow splashed across their faces.
“Are you ready, brother?”
“I am,” he lied. “Let’s go.”
8
Jeremiah Stoutmire walked through the village of Cornrows, the hair on his neck erect. The cool spring breeze was weak compared to the ice that locked his spine. He held a torch in one hand and a shortsword in the other. At first, he had thought himself foolish waking in a full panic from a nightmare he could not remember. Then he saw others about, lit torches in their hands, and he knew his fear was justified. A young, fat-nosed farmer saw him awake and approached.
“Couldn’t sleep either, Jeremiah?” he asked.
“Aye, had the worst nightmares.” Jeremiah glanced at the sword in the farmer’s hand. “You feel the same, don’t you?”
The farmer nodded.
“Feels like the dark god himself is coming for us. Part of me wants to grab my children and run.”
“Perhaps it is a warning,” Jeremiah said. “Ashhur may be granting us a chance. Bandits, or worse. The orcs have struck Veldaren once. They may well have found a way across the bone ditch again.”
“Hard to rest with torchlight flickering into your bedroom,” said an elderly man behind Jeremiah.
“Something ain’t right, Corren,” Jeremiah said, “and I’d bet all my harvest you feel it stronger than we do.”
Corren stroked his beard as his eyes went blank.
“Two men come from the east,” he said, his voice distant. “But they are not men. Troubled spirits, half-demons...”
The two farmers stared at Corren in horror as the old man’s voice returned to normal.
“Ashhur will not grant me to see any more.”
“Gather the children on the west side of the town,” Jeremiah ordered. “Tell everyone they must be ready to flee.”
“Flee from what?” the farmer asked.
“It doesn’t matter!” Jeremiah shouted. “Tell the others!”
The man went to do as ordered. He had not the heart to argue, not with the fear of his nightmare still lingering. He spread the word to the rest searching the town.
“Ashhur help us,” Corren suddenly whispered. “Hurry. I feel they have arrived.”
A warcry rolled from the east, a primal, mindless roar that shook every man in the village.
“Flee west,” Jeremiah ordered Corren. “And take every one you find with you.”
The old man put a hand on the young farmer’s shoulder.
“Fear not,” he said, a weak smile on his face. “Ashhur’s golden eternity awaits us.”
Jeremiah raised his sword so that the flame of his torch flickered across it.
“Not this night, not if I can help it,” he said before running toward the battle cry.
The town held only ninety members, half of them younger than eighteen. When the second brutal cry rolled over the houses, most were running west, dragging children and carrying young ones in their arms. The men, young and old, took up torches, shortswords, even rakes and sickles, and prepared to defend their homes. Bravely they fought, and bravely they died.
“Run, run, run!” Jeremiah shouted to a mother pulling along a young boy. “Run west, and don’t look back!” A horrible shriek of pain tore his attention past them to a circle of torches, held by the gathered defenders of the small village. He kissed his sword as he approached, horrified by the massacre he saw in the dim light.
A great half-orc bore down on a strong child of thirteen that Jeremiah knew well. Strength in fields and spirit meant little compared to the might of a warrior conducting the dark god’s power. Condemnation tore through his rusted sickle, cut his arm from his body, and then hooked around, severing his ankles. The boy fell, dying in four pieces.
Jeremiah knew then he would enter the golden eternity before the dawn.
Someone swung a torch while another man thrust his short sword. The half-orc shattered the sword with a savage swipe while ignoring the torch as it smashed across his leather armor. He roared as he chopped that man’s head into pieces. The dropped torch sputtered and died.
All the courage he could muster failed to move Jeremiah forward. He watched the raging warrior butcher friend after friend, so many having never seen their eighteenth winter. Harruq tore a neck open, punctured the same man three times, and then gutted another who had closed the distance. The man died after his final slash passed an inch from the half-orc’s skin.
“Come on,” Jeremiah said to himself. “Hang it all, come on!”
The half-orc held both swords out wide and roared at the remaining three facing him. When they held their ground, Jeremiah could bear the sight no more. He charged, screaming the cry of one expecting to die. He did not get far though, for a sharp burning pain enveloped his wrist. His arm jerked back, and the sudden force spun him to his knees. As he knelt there, a voice spat down at him.
“Pitiful.”
Jeremiah looked up to see another half-orc clad in ragged robes. The fire came once more, wrapping around his throat. Smoke blurred his vision, the smell of his own charring flesh filled his nose, and he dropped his sword to claw at his neck. Flesh burned off his fingers. He felt the pain fade away. Then nothing.
The whip slithered off his throat and coiled around the half-orc’s hand.
“Simply pitiful,” Qurrah said again, but Jeremiah did not hear it. His soul was already on its way.
Red eyes watched from afar, their owner relishing the carnage amid the dying torchlight. A smile grew on his ever-changing face.
“Beautiful,” Velixar whispered as the number of dead grew. Shifting sighs and mindless moans drifted from behind. Velixar glanced back at his companions, who now numbered in the thousands.
“Surround the town,” he commanded them. The nearest nodded, the movement swinging the entirety of his rotting face. He moaned to the others, sending them in motion. The man in black extended a hand to his two disciples.
“Send on their souls,” he said, “but leave the bodies for me.”
Harruq stormed through the village, roaring for any to stand and fight.
“We’re coming for you,” he shouted, his voice like the growl of a dog. “You are weak! Weak!”
The cry of a child sent him bashing through the door of a small home. Inside, a girl hu
ddled beside her much younger sister. They were wrapped in blankets. The little girl clutched a doll in her hands. Harruq paused, and deep in his heart, some piece of him shrieked in protest.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Salvation and Condemnation quivered in his hands. “There’s no room for compassion. Not here. Not tonight.”
He left the house, blood covering his blades. He let out a primal cry to the stars, whether of anguish or elation, he did not know.
Qurrah broke away from his brother when the last died before them. He could smell the fear of the villagers, and like a tracking dog he could use it to find where they fled.
Flames danced across the side of one house, alerting Qurrah. The half-orc coiled the whip around his arm and pulled out a scrap of bone from a pouch. It was time to test the spells his master had taught him. An elderly man came around the corner, a torch his only weapon. He glared at Qurrah with unabashed hatred.
“Weakness,” the necromancer hissed in the wispy tongue of magic. The old man dropped his torch and wobbled on his legs. His elderly arms, already shriveled, shrunk even more. Skin tightened against his frame, and in seconds it was if the man had become a living skeleton decorated with flesh, hair, and clothes. The man took a staggered step forward, still determined to fight Qurrah even as his arms struggled to bear their own weight. He let out a moan of unintelligible loathing.
“You are not worth my time,” Qurrah told him. “So consider this an honor for your determination.”
He began casting, relishing the feeling of control flowing throughout his body. Never before had he felt so powerful, so invincible. He prayed the night would never end.
“Verl Yun Kleis,” he hissed. Hands of ice. The half-orc lunged forward, grabbing the old man by the wrist. Blue light swirled around the contact of their flesh, causing the water and blood inside his arm to freeze. Qurrah’s smile broadened as the man collapsed and died while still within his grasp. When he let go, the icy flesh hit the dirt hard enough to crack the arm at the shoulder. Blood poured out from the body but not the arm.
“A marvelous spell,” the half-orc gasped, fighting away a momentary wave of dizziness.
He closed his eyes and attuned his mind to the village. A stench of fear trailed west. Women and children, all of them panicked and confused.
“Harruq, they flee west,” Qurrah whispered, magically enhancing his voice using a spell Velixar had taught him. His quiet words flooded the town, audible by all yet still sounding like a whisper. The fleeing residents of the town heard and were terrified. His brother heard and obeyed.
The two met at the edge of town. They saw scattered groups of families not far in the distance.
“Get them, my brother,” Qurrah ordered. “None may live or they will tell of the half-orcs who destroyed their town.”
“Then they’re dead,” Harruq said, clanging his swords together. Power crackled through them. He took up the chase.
An elderly man and woman, propping each other up as they ran side by side, refused to turn when Harruq barreled toward them. Salvation took the woman’s life, Condemnation the man’s. The two bodies collapsed, their lifeless limbs entangled. Not far ahead of them, a woman ran in only her shift, a child clutched to her breast.
“Why do you flee?” Harruq roared when her crying eyes glanced back at him. “This life is pain, suffering! I’m here to end it, end it all!”
The woman ran faster and her child cried louder. It didn’t matter. Harruq rammed her with his shoulder. To protect her child, the woman rolled so that her side took the brunt of the fall. As the half-orc’s blades twirled in the air, the mother kissed her child one last time before curling up around the joy of her life. Then the blades fell.
On the half-orc ran. Innocent blood stained his sword as life after life ended. Harruq felt no remorse and saw no pain. The blood haze of rage and dark magic blocked all. Man, woman, child, it didn’t matter. They all died. Only seven managed to keep ahead of his berserking madness: a mother, her two children, a few farmers, and their daughters. They dared to hope.
As they ran, a strange sight met their eyes. In the distance were hundreds of bodies lined in perfect formation. They held no torches or lanterns. The wind shifted, and upon its gentle flow the stench of death came to them. The villagers slowed, fearfully eyeing the line. The stars were bright, and there was no mistaking that something was amiss. They were no soldiers. Only a scattered few wore armor. Still, they stood in the straight lines of a disciplined army.
A roar from Harruq at their heels spurred them on. They charged the line, crying out for aid.
“A creature attacked our town,” shouted the mother. “Please, my daughter is still there. They might hurt her. Please, help us!”
“There’s two,” shouted one of the farmers. “They killed my wife! You have to…”
Their words trailed off once they were close enough to see clearly. Flesh hung from their bones, pale and rotting. Wounds spotted nearly every one, although no blood poured from them. Their saviors were men, orc, and elf, but they were dead.
“Ashhur help us,” an exhausted farmer murmured before the line advanced upon them. The Forest Butcher at their heels, they could not run. Velixar’s army of undead tore the seven apart and cast their remains to the dirt. So ended the last life of Cornrows.
Harruq halted before the mess that had been his prey. The line of undead stood motionless, their unfocused eyes looking nowhere. The wind blew through them, shifting their hair and whistling through the holes in their bodies. The half-orc said nothing, just stared at the carnage and the servants of his master as he waited for Qurrah. The mindless rage that had consumed him slowly faded. By the time his brother arrived, it was all but a memory.
“The undead took them,” Qurrah said, his breath quick and shallow. “Velixar did not trust us.”
“I trust little,” Velixar said, stepping through the line of his servants. “The truth is I do not take risks. If any survived you would have been identified and my plans ruined.”
Both brothers bowed to their master.
“What are the plans you speak of?” Harruq asked.
“In time, my dear bone general, I will tell you both. For now though, I must deal with your brother.” Velixar brought his gaze to the young necromancer.
“Let us return to the village. It is time we test your power.”
The three stood in the center of the town, corpses scattered in all directions. There was an eerie silence creeping about, its soft touch tickling Harruq’s spine. He held the hilts of his twin blades in his hands, drawing comfort from them. At that dark moment, it was his only comfort.
“You know what I ask of you,” Velixar said.
“I do,” Qurrah said. “I pray I do not disappoint.”
He closed his eyes, his hands stretched to either side. His fingers hooked and curled in strange ways, many times so twisted and odd that Harruq could not bear to watch them dance. Words spilled from the frail half-orc’s lips. Some were strong, demanding, while others came limping out, twisted in form and barely existing as they were meant to exist. The words, however, did not matter as much as the dark power rolling forth from Qurrah. His sheer will would determine the full strength of the spell.
A cold wind came blasting in, seemingly from all directions. Faster and faster, the words poured from Qurrah’s pale lips. Harruq braced himself as his hair fluttered before his eyes. The spell neared completion, and Velixar hissed in sheer pleasure at the power flaring from his apprentice. Qurrah shrieked out one final word, the signal, the climax of the spell.
“Rise!”
All around corpses staggered to their feet.
“Qurrah,” Harruq stammered but could say no more.
“Eight,” Qurrah gasped, dropping to his knees. “It is…I am sorry, master.”
Velixar walked about, examining each of the undead farmers. He remained quiet, hiding all emotion from his apprentice and even refusing to look at him.
“This is the first ti
me you have ever brought the dead back to life,” Velixar said. “Correct?”
“Of this size, yes,” Qurrah answered. His entire body rose and fell according to his unsteady gasps.
The man in black turned to him.
“When I was first taught that same spell I managed only four. Rise from your feet, Qurrah Tun.” He faced the undead. “Kneel!” he shouted to them. At once, the eight bowed to Qurrah. Velixar placed a hand on the half-orc’s shoulder.
“It is your servants that should bow to you,” he said. “And one could not ask for a more gifted disciple.”
Qurrah stood but kept his head bowed. Harruq shifted on his feet, scared and confused. The eyes of his brother…tears?
“Thank you, my master,” whispered the half-orc. “I have never felt more honored.”
Velixar placed a hand atop Qurrah’s head and accepted the tears he knew the half-orc tried to hide. He had long thought the weaker emotions fled from his soul, but that night he felt an overwhelming sense of pride.
“Harruq,” Velixar said, his normally unshakable voice faltering. “Escort your brother home. Protect him, even unto death. He will usher in a new age to this world. Of this I have no doubt.” He shouted an order to Qurrah’s undead. The eight obeyed, marching out of town to join the rest of Velixar’s army.
“I will take control now,” he said to his disciple. “In time, the burden of sustaining life in them will seem weightless. Until then, let me bear it. Look at me.”
Qurrah did, his eyes red and his face wet. “Yes master?” he asked. No weakness tainted his voice. The man in black put a hand on either side of Qurrah’s face and drew him close.
“Become a god among men,” he whispered. “Remain faithful to me, and to Karak, and I shall see it come to pass.”
Qurrah nodded but said nothing. Instead, he turned and joined his brother.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
“I’m thinking that’s a great idea,” Harruq said. The two stepped around the bodies of the slain as they headed east, leaving Velixar alone in the emptiness of Cornrows.
The Half-Orcs: Books 1-5 Page 8
